


Stay little valentine

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 04:37:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: “Your absurdity is as inane as always.” He reaches into his coat pocket and, to Grell’s utter surprise, produces a burning red poppy flower. “I was given this by a child on the street.” Will continues briskly. “And seeing as I had no time to dispose of it before Scotland Yard arrived, I trust you will find some use for it.” He hands the flower to her.William/Grell.





	Stay little valentine

The morning mist stains the pale sunlight, filtered as it was through the thin grey clouds of daybreak. Below, the rattle of milk carts and laborers echo against the damp cobblestone as tailor shops, bakeries, appliance stores, and offices all open for the first month of May. Children in faded cloth dash about the stone sidewalk, hands grubby and stained with the grime and filth of their profession. It is the city of London that beckons and calls, stewing in her industrial glory and cosmopolitan might even as the poor rest in filthy puddles, cowering against street corners, hungry for change.

And beyond the city limits, far from the metropolis of constant motion, lay the bruised and broken body of a girl not older than twelve, with empty eyes and a glass smile. Her skirts are ripped and stained with a mixture of mud and dried blood.

William T. Spears adjusts his glasses with well-worn precision, fingertip gently pressing against the black-lacquered frame as the finishes the last of his collection. _Undermanned and understaffed,_ he thinks. It is the only reason he is out in the field today and not barricaded behind familiar office doors.

 _At least Sutcliff has been situated on the other side of the city,_ Will muses. It has, after all, been one of the very few mornings he could walk around the bullpen without being physically accosted by a willowy blur of crimson and carmine.

Small mercies he supposes.

Glancing down, William retrieves the black leather-bound journal and stamps ‘COMPLETED’ next to the girl’s name.

_Rosalind Davies._

She would have been twelve next week, he observes with almost detached indifference.

Returning the journal to his pocket (and keenly aware of the awaiting paperwork in his office), the reaper prepares to teleport back, binder and Death Scythe in hand.

Thus it is only with cultivated composure that the supervisory reaper manages to conceal his scythe when a young girl—a _child_ —appears, wandering into the alleyway with a wicker basket in hand. 

 _Uninformed, oblivious, with no sense of self-preservation._ Is his immediate assessment. William’s gaze is ice-cold when she comes to stand before him.

He expects the child to realize her mistake in the next moment or two (humans were ever so oblivious), waits for the full weight of the situation to sink in so she could return to her mother or whatever godforsaken hovel she crawled out from under but—

To his complete and utter amazement, the girl’s eyes fill up with tears, transforming the dull brown irises into a shade of astonishing amber.

Some part of him is aware—however dimly—that he must now comfort the girl. To offer some benediction of sympathy, some mode of amenity so her eyes might clear—so he would not be left standing here, repressing a dull ache that he has learned to ignore with practiced apathy.

Yet words, however pretty, were fleeting and simple.

They could not revive the dead nor provide shelter from the cycle of grief and loss. The passage of human life was an inevitable conclusion that affected all humans. It was, in effect, pointless to grieve over such an indisputable force of nature but somehow, William thinks, such words might not be appreciated by a girl under the age of eight.

“Return home.” He commands in his softest tone, not desiring to hear a child’s wails so early in the morn. He has managed four whole hours without spectacle and would prefer to keep it that way.

“‘M sorry,” she mumbles unintelligibly and William has to physically restrain himself from ordering her to speak up.

Loud voices, he has learned, have a monstrously frightful quality when used in excess.

“‘M real sorry,” the girl adds, as if _that_ would somehow alleviate the stench of death fermenting around them. “Didn’t mean to come here, I jus—I was on my way to the market.”

 _The market._ William adjusts his glasses. _I can offer some assistance with that._ “Turn south, walk two and a half kilometers, and make a sharp left on Elmwood Street.” He instructs briskly, ready to point her in the correct direction (were children skilled in the art of basic navigation? Or has that educational aspect also been lost with the rise of modernity?) when suddenly—without prelude or expectation—a flash of crimson comes into his line of sight.

In the girl’s tiny hand is a red poppy flower with wide soft petals and a sweet, hazy scent.

“For you,” she insists, “I hope your heart feels lots better one day.” Her speech is sloppy and the flower is somewhat wilted but her smile—her imperfect, gap-toothed smile that is neither angelic nor pretty—burns with a radiance warmer than candlelight.

William’s brow twitches, but whether in irritation or amusement he can’t say.

Instead he gives her a sharp, brusque nod and watches as she turns away, giving the reaper a guileless, friendly wave before disappearing in the morning mist.

For a while he simply stands there, observing the blankness of the grey-drenched dawn, half-wondering what to do with the flower in his black-gloved hand when he hears the familiar rattle of the dilatory paddy wagon.

_Scotland Yard._

 

* * *

 

“Will! Oh, Will you’re _back!_ ” The strange, vibrating falsetto that is Grell Sutcliff’s voice pierces through the muted mumbling of the office bullpen. He can hear the sharp strike of Sutcliff’s heels piercing the tile flooring as she races to catch up.

Will continues walking.

“How was London? Was it terribly invigorating? Oh! Did you pick up anything for me? Hm? A trinket? A gift? A kiss?” Grell flutters alongside Will, movements supple and sure even whilst walking a few steps behind her superior.

Will says nothing.

“I’ll have you know it’s been wretchedly _dull_ here without you—not a single man worthy of my charms!” She huffs. “It’s as if I’ve been made divine and with blessings to give but here? Oh _here_ there’s not a single man deserving of a taste!” 

They stop at his office doors.

Will turns. “I trust you’ll have your report on my desk at 1700 hours.”

She pouts. “Is that all you have to say to me? And with you being gone so long—!”

“I was away for less than an hour.” He returns blandly and to anyone else, his countenance would have looked little more than stoic—blank-faced, stern eyed.

But to Grell, who has studied Will’s mannerisms with all the precision of a knife edge, he is distracted.

Distracted and tense. _Very_ tense.

“Something happen down there?” She asks, half-teasing and mostly concerned.

He says nothing but those eyes—a hard, striking chartreuse—flicker away for half a millisecond before a mask of calm control reappears. “No.”

And usually, this is where Grell would push—would prod, cajole, and question until Will gave in or shut her out but instead, she restrains herself. Presses nails against skin to keep from prying.

There is something uncertain about Will right now—uncertain and bit _wild_ —and Grell wants to _drown_ herself in it.

“Sutcliff.”

“I know, I know,” she waves a hand. “Report. 1700 hours. Your desk. Clothes off.”

“Your absurdity is as inane as always.” He reaches into his coat pocket and, to Grell’s utter surprise, produces a burning red poppy flower. “I was given this by a child on the street.” Will continues briskly. “And seeing as I had no time to dispose of it before Scotland Yard arrived, I trust you will find some use for it.” He hands the flower to her.

Grell’s jaw all but falls to the floor.

_Will…Will brought her_ **_flowers_ ** _?! Granted it was a single flower but oh! Didn’t that just make things so much more intimate? A single blossom—a kiss of red—a stroke of passion—!_

“Oh _Will!_ ” Grell all but shrieks, yanking the flower from William’s hand, eyes fixed on the small poppy blossom and missing, completely missing, the faint—oh so faint—smile on her superior’s mouth.

He turns back around. “The report Sutcliff.” Will reminds before disappearing into his office.

The doors close gently—almost softly—and the wonder in Grell Sutcliff’s smile, teeth and all, is just shy of sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title comes from one of my favorite song's 'My Funny Valentine' 
> 
> A/N: A bit late but Happy Valentine's everyone ♡
> 
> Feedback appreciated ^^ (seriously, I've never written William/Grell before so your comments are very much welcomed!)


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